


;;-->> Deicide

by Black



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games), Deus Ex: Human Revolution
Genre: Blood, Death, Gore, M/M, Upsetting Imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 03:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black/pseuds/Black
Summary: Mom always preached about God - dinner tables were standard for scripture and Adam can remember her prattling feverishly about how if he ever felt unloved, unwanted, that God would be there.





	;;-->> Deicide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smooshkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smooshkin/gifts).



> Smooshkin and I have been like chest deep in Jensif and he had a request for Adam having a relapse nightmare in which he pins his weird violent and self loathing thoughts on Sarif and then fantasizes about ripping him apart as a psychological release from his pain. 
> 
> Well, this was the result LOL  
> Enjoy, it was fun to write but also killed me and upset my muse holy shit.

 

Priests and Paradoxes;  
Were they not the same?

Mom always preached about God - dinner tables were standard for scripture and Adam can remember her prattling feverishly about how if he ever felt unloved unwanted that God would be there. He’d be there with open arms for his sheep, for he was their shepherd and

she warned him of wolves and their whispers.  
their hellish teeth. 

Adam damns himself the moment he learns how pretty a lamb’s blood feels on his chin. eyes slatted and claws crunched into skin; he gutted them in his dreams. muscles moving lupine - eyes slatted feline. black limbs. black limbs.

his throat is red.  
his throat is red.

Adam focuses on the roast the next time she says grace at the table - he blames wanting to tear it apart on puberty. had to be. he cuts into his serving with dignity, knife held steadily between his fingers.

the dreams - they come and go.  
the lambs are always faceless - some unsung quell of his rage. Adam finds himself fisting through intestines, shivering at the hot slip of them through his fingers. pulling. pulling. popping under pressure and their hands flutter against the floor and he could hardly care about their bayed pleas.

he strokes bloodied claws through their young wool, craving the thread of soft curls.

Does it ever concern him?  
A touch.

but the aggression never bleeds corporeal.   
always ghostly, always dissipating.

a wisp of smoke through his fingers upon waking; the dreams always exhaust him. he can never find the urge, the trigger pull to act upon them.

the lambs are fed to slaughter,  
and he is fed their blood.

Mom prayed for forgiveness,  
He preyed upon God’s beloved sheep.

He kept quiet about them - he kept quiet about the pockets of proverbial rage that curled hot in his gut when he closed his eyes and scattered upon waking. Lost in the fog for a night, or two. And then back to donning his uniforms. Various in color. Various in importance.

He doesn’t tell Mom.  
He doesn’t tell Dad.   
He doesn’t tell Megan.

He doesn’t  
tell

He doesn’t…

...

The augs anchor heavy in his skin.   
He sees the creature in the mirror upon waking.  
For the first time - the promise of those dreams unnerve him.

He keeps waiting. waiting. waiting. The Sentinel chirps in his ear and his limbs thrum slick; ink black and blotting. skin reddened upon where everything has been stapled thick, punctured deep. his chest dotted black, his skin has been split and sewn.

The eyes he sees are not his own.   
Slatted - feline.  
Fingers clawed upon the sink’s edge.

Adam Jensen attacks himself with a crackling snarl. The glass falls in a heap, a twinkling cacophony of misplaced rage. Everything has been stripped, taken. taken from him. He is no longer his own - just name-brand bullshit of some man sitting in a corporate office and - he had made his peace. he had sang with wolves and he had murdered sheep.

he had _made_ his peace.

Oh -- Megan.

…

The dream comes that night - his hands are rooting through his own stomach and slipping against his own innards. blood bubbling in his throat, past his lips. down his neck. seeping into the dirt and he’s scraping his belly with smooth fingers and sobbing in frustration that he can’t unheave all the stones that have been woven into his stomach.  

out.  
out.

get them -

he wakes.  
he wakes, groggy.

throat thick with internalized agony.

he glances down and his stomach is pink - fingers trembling. he tightens them to stop the shaking and heaps depressed. he closes his eyes.

he doesn’t dream.

Sarif comes by a week later - concerned.  
If Adam were more animated, he would have cackled. he would have kicked his legs in a flurry of broken glass and gnashed his cracking teeth. Look at me. Look. Look what you’ve _made_.

Look what you’ve broken.  
Look what you’ve _fucking_ broken.

Adam betrays his own rage as Sarif touches him. coaxes him down. There’s a thread of warmth in his words, his praise. Something that boils sick in his guts. churns heavy and hard. David Sarif fucks him over the edge of his own bed and Adam Jensen doesn’t dream that night.

The man he sought to fixate blame upon becomes  
a comfort. He surprises himself how easily he lets David in - despite how scared he is to let someone that close again. hazy, hazy. Hands upon him fingers in him and the dreams are a muzzy memory; there’s been something that’s tangled so terribly in his chest that he had forgotten how to breathe. wicked and vile - he hadn’t even noticed how deadened he had become.

how angry.

When had he let those briars settle there?  
How many had tried to pass them only to pull away with

lacerated hands and legs, cut cross in patterns unknown to brave men?

Sarif didn’t need bravery.  
He just needed hearth. heart.

A pair of open arms.

He wasn’t a monster to his embrace, just a sad creature.  
He wasn’t a monster to his embrace, he was just Adam.

He doesn’t dream for weeks.  
He doesn’t dream for months.

… 

Detroit slumbers outside of Sarif’s window and Adam is tucked tight into royal sheets. curled close to a warm body and he doesn’t have to be anywhere tomorrow. This is limbo: his ghost could linger here. Dead in the still air, the stars glittering in the winter sky.

And there’s a monster here, tonight.  
And he’s terrified.

Back into a corner, bloody and black. his limbs ooze at the seams - red and thick. browned. the churning smell of stagnant rot. sloughing. sloughing. He’s cold with fear, trembling tight in his toes and rallied to his finger tips.

His maw cracks in a choppy sob. a mourning whimper. He’s lost himself. He is no longer his own. his claws hook sharp. into the ink. into the black. and _pull_

He chokes. writhes against the wall and bubbles forth a pained noise. seeping. seeping down. down. curled in upon himself and he can’t feel his fucking limbs - he can only smell them.

“ _Son_?”

Rigid, spine protruding as he shifts, forehead pressed to back-alley grime. Lit low by a flickering street light. he shifts his fingers down into the asphalt. he can’t feel them. he can’t _feel_ them. corrosive, battery acid past his lips as he’s sick  
sick  
fucking sick and how

dare they not lay him to rest  -  
he had made _peace_!

…

he’s crunched up under the weight of necrosis, but springs forward upon the body reaching out for him. familiar. loving eyes and tender lies; Adam has forgotten his name. lost in the crack and clatter of limbs on pavement and he bristles like the animal he is.

Damn that sad creature - damn that fucking sad creature that unfurled his claws and shelved his fangs. That befriended his fear. That fucking _fell in love with it_.

Mom always warned about God - dinner tables were standard for scripture and Adam can remember her prattling feverishly about how if he ever felt unloved unwanted that God would be there -

He was ignorant to the idea of  
Kings playing God

That four letters could meld to three.

The Lion thought he could save a lamb - ignorant to the wolf that lumbered just under it’s skin. He felt like crying, he felt like wailing his anger and insecurities. He felt like fucking dying.

Detroit’s rain soaked ground held no traction but his teeth still found skin, buried into that mane and blistered up blood upon puncture. hands found his head and nails found his scalp and he’s tearing past that crinkled suit with some loving fervor that he can’t tap back.

not this time.

he found himself the subject of pawn -  
knighted into something mechanical, cold. Adam Jensen should be dead - instead you left a monster in his wake. you left something dark and festering, screeching and forlorn. the belly breaks without much work and he’s shaking.

shaking.

he can’t find the rocks as he roots, he can’t find anything similar to the weight they’ve sewn into him. he winces at those nails pulling but he rumbles out a aching snarl. his maw parting sharp and then snapping shut again. blood. blood. a throb of it and the man under him is arching, curled tight to his chest and

the Lion is wheezing, the blood bubbling from his nose with the motion. Adam squeezes his eyes tight and trembles -  
trembles

and his bleeding fingers curl against a well-dressed hip. the hate is consuming; he lifts his crooked mouth, opens his burning eyes, and  
then. falters.

David Sarif stares back - hand sliding down from his scalp to cup his cheek. thumb stroking his his eye and wiping away a shred of gore. there’s some shaking smile on his lips and he stares. and stares.

Regal even with his throat ripped open, the muscles flexing as he struggles to breathe. Adam is furious with the look of forgiveness that washes through the royal beast, gold shirt bleeding red. bleeding red.

_You always have to be right._

Adam wants to shrink backward, back into the shadowy corner that’s birthed him but Sarif’s trembling hands are pulling him forward. he touches their foreheads together. His eyes are feline, slatted. but gentle. warm. red with the blood that’s found itself there and he can’t blink it out.

His winter sky rumbles, the stars twinkle cacophonous as they fall.

He doesn’t apologize.  
Sarif can’t ask him to.

Adam’s hands slide up through the ruin of his belly and linger on his ribs, his hearth, his heart. shaking. shaking. there’s something warm down his cheeks. he thinks it might be blood. it smells like rot.

his throat is red.  
his throat is red.

he strokes bloodied claws through the lion’s mane, craving the thread of safety. once more.  
once more.

Adam closes his eyes.

Adam opens his eyes.

The room is silent.   
David Sarif rests heavy on his chest, at peace, fingers seeking home against his scalp. The air is still, stale with Detroit’s sleepy, rainy murmur. his thighs tremble. his hands tremble. his stomach churns hot and sick - there’s something warm down his cheeks.

he thinks it might be blood…


End file.
